


Rest of My Life

by LoversAntiquities



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bars and Pubs, Christmas Eve, M/M, Musician Dean, SPN Holiday Mixtape, Snow
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-15
Updated: 2016-12-15
Packaged: 2018-09-08 16:03:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,275
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8851261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LoversAntiquities/pseuds/LoversAntiquities
Summary: Alone on Christmas Eve, Castiel wanders into a bar in Junction City hoping to drown out the noise from the road. Instead, he finds a local musician left by his family for the holiday—and for the life of him, Castiel doesn't want to leave without him.





	

There’s a bar on the outskirts of Junction City with an occupancy of a hundred patrons, at maximum. Faded bullet-riddled street signs and vintage knick knacks adorn the old oak walls, the windows both inside and out decorated with strings of multicolored bulbs, all flashing in disorganized waves, some not bothering to pulse at all. The bartender, James, absently washes the same spot for the fourth time that night, his eyes on the television across the empty room, some Hallmark movie about dogs displayed the screen. A few locals with no family to go home to loiter in the corner, playing the quietest game of Spades imaginable, none of them making a sound except to sniffle or cough, sometimes both. In the corner, a woman speaks in hushed tones on her cellphone, eyes red and bloodshot, her hand shaking as it rests on the tabletop, the faded skin of her ring finger visible for the first time in days, possibly years.

It’s a somber sight, Castiel figures, seated at the bar, running his finger around the rim of his barely touched shot glass, whiskey gone warm, unappealing. Outside, a light snow falls, barely enough to call a dusting. But, if the forecast goes like planned, they’re supposed to be blanketed in nearly a foot by the time morning comes; hopefully, he can get back to his hotel by then and hunker down before the bottom falls out. Maybe this time they’ll keep power, unlike that roach motel in Pontiac.

God, he would kill for a warm bed.

“Probably gonna close down in an hour,” James mentions offhand, still watching the television, exhaustion in his eyes. Castiel glances at him, at the dark circles there and the downturn of his lips, almost sad. White streaks through his hair in the dim lights of the bar, just visible enough to show his age. Maybe thirty years ago, this was a fun job, one he could enjoy while chatting with the locals and the just passing throughs—now, he wants to go home for Christmas. Castiel doesn't blame him. “Friend of mine’s gonna sing in a bit, then we’re shuttin’ down.”

Castiel looks down to his glass, unenthused. “Is he any good?”

James shrugs, finally putting away his washrag and slipping off his apron. “He says he’s not, but if he put out an album, I’d be the first in line.”

Not much of an endorsement, but Castiel will take whatever he can get. This is the first place he’s actually stopped at on his way from New York that hasn't involved a motel or a rest stop parking lot; hearing someone sing outside of the scratchy tunes of the radio is a godsend.

 It takes another few minutes before he hears someone arrive, the jingle of the bells dangling from the doorknob overshadowing the woman now sobbing with her phone in her hands and the Spade players talking about the weather and whether two of them could save their family from internal collapse. An auburn-haired man covered in snow wanders in, the shoulders of his worn leather jacket dusted in white, his nose and ears red with the cold. Pale and freckled, he stands tall with a guitar case slung over his shoulder, boots caked in dried mud up to the heel. Yet, he smiles like he hasn’t wandered in from the desert, like the world isn’t crumbling around them on Christmas, like he isn’t alone, just like everyone else here in this bar.

“Feel like I’m singin’ to myself,” the man says to James, and James just rolls his eyes, tossing a clean washrag at him.

“Get mud on my floors, and I’m gonna keep you after hours, Dean,” James chides, deadpan yet amused. “I’m closin’ after you’re done.”

“Can do,” Dean grins. He passes Castiel with a wave and a wink, and Castiel nearly flushes with the sudden attention. All Castiel can do is wave back, barely lifting his fingers off the bar. By far, aside from clipped words with motel staff and James commenting on whatever’s been playing on the television for the past hour, it’s the most human interaction Castiel’s had since he left Rochester for the holidays.

No one takes notice when Dean sits at the pathetic excuse for a stage in the back of the room, two pale spotlights casting a blue hue on his shoulders while he unpacks his guitar from the case, the surface scratched and covered in stickers from concerts Castiel can’t even begin to name. Dean sits on the barstool and takes a second to check the strings, his booted foot tapping one of the legs, just barely visible under the hem of his jeans. Despite the age, they sound melodic, finely tuned under his skilled fingertips.

As far as Castiel can tell, he’s never heard this song before; Dean doesn’t waste time launching into it, forgoing any introduction for crooning along in hushed tones, almost to himself if he weren’t in front of a microphone. In the corner, the Spades players watch, and the woman now sits with her head in her hands, occasionally wiping her nose.

_Let it be Christmas everywhere_   
_In the hearts of all people both near and a far_   
_Christmas everywhere_   
_Feel the love of the season wherever you are_   
_On the small country roads lined with green mistletoe_   
_Big city streets where a thousand lights glow_

“When he doesn’t think about it, he could knock your socks off,” James comments, beginning to tidy up the bar by shutting off the backlighting to the liquor case.

Briefly, Castiel glances away, his ears still trained on Dean’s melodies and the overwhelming calm it creates in his heart. “Does he come here often?” he asks, almost absent, before turning back to Dean, the utter clichéness of his statement only hitting him seconds after the words leave his mouth.

At least James finds it funny. “When he’s passing through. His folks live close, and he worked here for a few summers.” Another laugh. “I keep tryin’ to pay him, but he doesn’t want my money.”

Dean’s voice, ever so gentle, breaks through Castiel’s thoughts, his guitar now the singular object in the room, the only thing he can hear, the only thing he’s willing to listen to for as long as he can. With closed eyes, Dean looks down to his feet, occasionally tilting his face up to grin to probably one of the smallest audiences of his life. Still, it feels cozy here, like even though five others are in the room with Castiel, Dean is singing just for him, the lone crooner in the night.

It ends sooner than Castiel wants, Dean’s parting wave receiving a small ovation of scattered clapping and chairs scraping against the worn hardwood. Across the room, James shuts the television off, Castiel’s reflection clear in the black display. By the time he pays for his untouched shot, the woman with the phone has left, along with the group in the corner, and James is beginning to stack chairs atop tables while Dean gathers his belongings and places them in his guitar case.

Castiel shouldn’t—he doesn’t know Dean beyond a passing glance and one song. It wouldn’t be ethical. He’s supposed to leave tomorrow morning for California to see his brother for the holiday. He’s not supposed to be walking across the barroom floor to stand before probably the most attractive man he’s ever seen in his life and talking to him. “You’re—I admired your song,” Castiel stammers before he can even remember how he got here, standing at the edge of the stage with Dean on his knees, staring up at him with wide green eyes and a toothy grin, freckles even brighter under the spotlights.

This is wrong—so, so wrong.

“I’m glad you liked it,” Dean offers, closing his case and snapping the two latches shut. Standing, he slings it over his shoulder and offers Castiel a hand, calloused fingers brushing his palm. “Don’t think I’ve seen you around here before,” he comments, a brow quirked. “Just passing through?”

Castiel nods, inwardly regretting not finishing his drink. “I’m visiting my brother in Los Angeles for Christmas. I would’ve left sooner, but the snow kept me in New York.”

Dean whistles, amused. “Bet you’re glad you’re outta the city though,” he joshes. James shuts off the lights before Castiel can fully answer him, leaving both he and Dean in the dark while James threatens to lock them inside. “Outside?”

Without a word, Castiel follows Dean into the cold, leaving James to finish his duties and lock up for the night. “Why are you here?” Castiel asks, curious, leaning against a black behemoth of a car at his back, hip against the grill. Dean raises a brow, thumbs tucked into his jean pockets. “You should be home. It’s Christmas Eve, after all.”

For a long few seconds, Dean doesn’t answer, just shrugs and looks down at his feet, scuffing the snow underneath his boots. “Parents took the holiday for themselves, went up to Glacier. My brother’s in Florida with his girlfriend, and I’m… here.” He lets out a breath, mist pouring from between his lips. “I coulda gone with them, but I needed some time to myself. You know how that is, right?” Dean nudges Castiel’s ankle, playful. “That’s the reason why you’re not stuck in a plane right now, right?”

Under his breath, Castiel chuckles, crossing his arms. “I’m a flight attendant, actually,” he says, looking up to catch the surprise flit across Dean’s face. “I spend so much time in the air, I don’t get to see the country from ground level. I figured a road trip was more ideal than using my sky miles.”

“Fair enough,” Dean snorts.

Castiel catches Dean watching him with haggard eyes, the tips of his ears and nose turning red with the cold, auburn hair dusted with fresh snow. It’s another stupid idea—two in one night is more than Castiel has had in a long few months—but he can’t stop himself from blurting, “I have a room,” at Dean, much to Dean’s shock. _What if he’s not gay_? Castiel’s mind ever so helpfully supplies. _What if he’s not interested, and you’ve been getting the signals wrong_? _Are there any signals, anyway_? “…I haven’t talked to anyone in a few days, and you’re alone.” He stops, rubs the back of his neck. “No one should be alone on Christmas.”

Somehow, even minutes after it ended, Dean’s song echoes in his head, the lyrics ingrained there the longer they stand together under the lone streetlamp, James now gone from sight and mind. Sure, it’s probably not the ideal way to spend the holiday, in a motel room in Kansas with a complete stranger, but he can’t help the delighted shiver that runs through him when Dean smiles, warming Castiel to his core. “Think I’ll take you up on that,” Dean says, simple, like it’s that easy. Like the idea of spending the night together is something they do all the time.

With five minutes of talking, Castiel already likes Dean, probably more than he should.

“Hope I don’t wake up to see you gone, though,” Dean jokes, something hollow about it; Castiel aches with the implication, desperately wanting to ease whatever tension is there in the only way he can.

With a steady hand, fingertips frigid, he takes Dean’s wrist, lets their palms slide together. “I’ll be there,” he says, burning bright when Dean softens, smiles.

Sometime before the sun rises, Castiel wakes with a warm body wrapped in his arms and his nose pressed into sleep-warm hair, a pair of socked feet tucked between his own. How he got there is hazy, but Castiel revels in it regardless, clutches Dean tight, burrowing closer to his warmth. “Come with me,” Castiel murmurs, pressing a kiss to Dean’s bare nape, stomach flipping when Dean’s voice rumbles, indistinguishable. “To California,” Castiel amends, eyes slipping closed. “You shouldn’t have to sit here and wait for everyone to come back.”

It takes a second, but Dean manages to squirm and twist himself to face Castiel, an arm falling over Castiel’s hip, hand fisting the waistband of his boxers. Intimate, but decidedly less so than where they were last night. Memories flit through Castiel’s mind, warm lips and steady hands, freckled and soft, soft skin under his fingers into the early morning hours. “Okay,” Dean slurs, head tucked under Castiel’s chin.

Castiel pulls him in, flush, and lets out a deflating sigh, a smile just barely on his lips. “Sing to me?” he whispers, and for a split second, he swears he feels Dean’s smile. “The song from last night.”

“You liked it that much?” Dean laughs. Tucking a knee between Castiel’s, he slips his hand up Castiel’s back, lets it rest between his shoulder blades. “My mom plays it every year. Only song I know by heart.”

“It’s beautiful,” Castiel adds. He rests their foreheads together, watching the way Dean’s eyes dart between Castiel’s eyes and lips before closing them, sighing through his nose. “Even better when you sing it.”

“Gonna make me blush,” Dean says; his cheeks redden in the dark of the motel room, warm underneath Castiel’s palm. “Really wanna hear it again?”

Softly, Castiel smiles. “For as long as you’ll sing it.”

Outside, a lone dove begins to call longingly for a lover, its voice lost in the roar of a semi passing on the interstate and a car following close behind, disappearing into nothing.

Meanwhile, Dean sings, and Castiel holds him close, never planning to let him go.

**Author's Note:**

> Wahoo! I think this is gonna be my last fic for 2016 unless something else shows up between now and year end, because I've been trying (and failing) to work on my books before the month ends. I hope you enjoy it, and thank y'all for reading and kudos and comments this year! I really appreciate it, and even though I don't reply to comments, I love them and y'all for taking the time ❤︎
> 
> This is for the SPN Holiday Mixtape, and is inspired by the song ["Let it be Christmas"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a4YBHZ5Y7ZI) by Alan Jackson. Title is from the Nickel Creek song.
> 
> I'm on [tumblr](http://tragidean.tumblr.com) and [twitter](http://www.twitter.com/loversantiquity).


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